The Third Rome
by McMuffinDragon
Summary: France and Russia were work friends for lack of a better term.


The first time France saw Moscow, it was on fire. A month later, he and Napoleon left. Tchaikovsky wrote a very nice overture about his visit.

Nearly two centuries later, France would find letters and phone messages from Russia asking if he would like to visit. The eastern European nation usually answered these that maybe some other time would be better with vague details as to why now was a bad time. He and Russia were work friends for lack of a better term, allies, not really _friend_ friends. But now, was it worthwhile to try and avoid the largest nation on the planet? France picked up the phone on his desk; sometimes it was wiser to be nice to the big, if mentally disturbed, kid on the playground.

France stood shivering next to the door of the Moscow airport. March had seemed like a good time to visit, at least that had been his thought so in _Paris_. France bounced from one foot to another in ankle deep gray slush with only a light coat to protect him. He didn't even want to pull back his sleeve to check the time to see whether Russia was late or not. _Merde_, perhaps he was waiting at a different airport. Making a prolonged whining noise and staring up at the awning that hung over him, France didn't notice the growing shadow over his shoulder until it said hello, and France jumped.

The western nation quickly found himself smothered by the eastern one. "I am so glad you have coming to visit," Russia grinned as he released France, who was now recalling America's imitations of Russia involving terribly fractured speech.

"Oui," France wheezed, "Thank you for inviting me." He stood with his knees together and shaking. Russia raised his eyebrows, then dropped his large hat, which was made of some warm brown animal, onto France's head. Pushing the fur out of his eyes, Francis stumbled after the larger nation.

---

They stood on a crowded subway, headed God knew where. France was beginning to regret accepting this offer. He couldn't understand anything anyone said, but everyone sounded angry.

"Don't you have a car?" He asked his host quietly, hoping that the language barrier worked both ways.

"Da," Russia smiled, "But it is not driving in cold." France tried not to say that it was completely stupid to have a car when it was always cold here.

Instead he asked, "Where are we going?"

"You will see," Russia pulled his guest off at the next stop. France would have known where they were going if he could read Cyrillic, which he couldn't. He barely had time of admire the palace-like interior of the metro station before Ivan yanked him up onto the street.

"Here is Red Square," Russia spread his arms, and France almost ran into the tall man after dodging several Muscovites. Feeling something tap his back, Russia turned and drew his friend close, "There is Kremlin," He pointed to the large expanse stretching half the square. "My office," Russia bent to ensure they were on the same eye level, "is there," He pointed to one of the windows.

France opened his mouth to say that Ivan was lucky to have such a nice view, but the Northern nation spun him around to give France and eyeful of Saint Basil's Cathedral on the other end of the square. "I have wonderful view of cathedral all day." France was reminded of a small child showing off the city he'd built of blocks.

"Beautiful," France remarked, taking the structure in. With it's vibrant colors and many patterns, it really did look like something a child had designed. "One of the world's great landmarks." Russia's face lit up, and he grinned.

"I know it is World Heritage Site, but that never mean much. Is like your Notre Dame, da?" Ivan began leading Francis down the square, talking like a madman about everyone else's architecture. France nodded along and took in the sights around him.

---

After a visit to the Iberian Gate, Lenin's Tomb, and numerous other places France had forgotten the names of because he couldn't pronounce them, France had made the bold move to ask if they could stop for dinner.

France wasn't sure about what to expect from Russia's food; he was sure it couldn't possibly be worse than England's. What France found out was that Russia's food was very good after a day of not being able to feel his face. Having finished a bowl of a soup whose name made Russia sound like he was sneezing, France watched the people walking by on the street. He heard Russia make a request of the waiter and wasn't sure why he was surprised when a bottle of vodka and a single shot glass found themselves in front of him.

Russia poured a little vodka into the glass and pushed it to his friend. France picked it up with a little "merci."

"Toast," The Russian said, holding the bottle high. France touched his glass lightly to the bottle, and they both drank.

Once the bottle was dry, Russia rummaged in his jacket and withdrew two tickets. "What are those for?" France asked, trying to read the small writing.

"Swan Lake," Ivan grunted as he rose from the small table, "We will be late if we are not going now." France smiled and grabbed Russia's hat.

---

After the show, France stared up at the lighted facade of the Bolshoi Theater. He couldn't help but smile. Russia walked back after failing to gain France's attention to get him to follow. "What are you looking at?" He asked.

France glanced to his host. The light from the theater glowed on his pale face and made his lilac eyes glimmer; he looked back to the building. "I'm just admiring," He murmured. Russia smiled again.

"It's late," The Russian remarked, "We must go." He tugged lightly on France's sleeve, and France didn't resist following.

"You know," he said as they walked briskly down the block, "You should come visit Paris."


End file.
